William Shakespeare, Liturgist

The liturgical rearrangement—or in Peter Kwasniewski’s somewhat more colorful description, the liturgical bloodbath—that recently occurred in Tyler, Texas, has affected me on multiple levels. It affected me personally, because I have a family connection there. It affected me as a member of my local church, because I also live in a place where the Latin Mass seems to be rather unpopular among the diocesan leadership. It affected me as a member of the universal Church, because I love sacred Tradition and have for many years been devoted to the ancient eucharistic rite of western Christendom, which so fully and so poetically reifies that Tradition.

And there is yet another level, one which is not so widely shared as the first three I mentioned, and which perhaps has sent the emotional weight most directly into my heart. It has affected me—has wounded me—as someone who studies and teaches and writes about the dramatic literature of the English Renaissance. It has wounded me as someone who recently stood in front of a classroom full of college students, English majors among them, and spoke at length about Othello. This is a play in which the relentless manipulation of reality leads to appalling destruction. It is a play in which cunning words breed death.

As is my wont when lecturing on such topics, I searched for avenues of passion and beauty and timeless significance that might convince the next generation of parents and artists and scholars that this play—written over four hundred years ago, in language that is often unfamiliar and unclear to them—is still worth their time, is still worth reading and studying and talking about, is still worth pondering and admiring and loving. Imagine how strange, how disorienting, how deeply disturbing it would be if the president of the university walked into my classroom and calmly declared that Shakespeare would no longer be taught. “We have new plays now,” he explains, “and some people consider them simpler, and more relevant, and less likely to offend or exclude, and therefore Shakespeare is abrogated—for the sake of unity. We must all study the new plays now.”

“But Mr. President,” I protest “there are a great many students and faculty members who enjoy and value Shakespeare, and some have even discovered a transformative richness in his works.”

“Of course, yes, we would never—er, well, we will not now completely exclude those who believe themselves to have a preference for old things. An unused room in the basement of Ebenezer Hall will be made available once per month for Shakespeare studies. It seats nine people.”

“But Mr. President, Shakespeare is the most revered author in the history of the English language—and perhaps the most revered playwright in all the world! His works are the beating heart of the English literary experience. They are utterly irreplaceable!”

“And yet they are, as of today, replaced. And lower your voice, please—what are you, some kind of anarchist? Do I not have the authority to decide what will and will not be taught in my university?”

“But Mr. President, the university’s collection of scholarship on Shakespeare is a small library unto itself. Brilliant researchers and scholars of the past and present wrote these books, which help us to understand not only Shakespeare’s plays and poems but drama itself, poetry itself, literature itself—life itself!”

“Those books will not, in the foreseeable future, be disposed of. But you’ll have no need to assign them and no need to consult them. If they then gather dust and end up in storage, that merely confirms their irrelevance.”

“With all due respect, Sir, your logic there seems slightly—”

“Your compliance in these matters is greatly appreciated. It is the duty of the university to guard our intellectual traditions from the threat of disunity.”

“Mr. President, this classroom was united from the first day of the semester until you opened that door.”

“The stagnant unity of the past is not the same as the dynamic unity of the future.”

“But the dynamic unity of the future is, for me, no future at all. I teach Shakespeare. I read and study and esteem and cherish Shakespeare. You have destroyed my professional life, and you have broken my heart.”

“You will learn to cherish the new playwrights. Class is dismissed.”

If you are not able to imagine this scene, don’t worry. There’s really no need to imagine the unimaginable. Something like this would never happen, in a university.

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Dr. Harold Bloom—professor at Yale, preeminent twentieth-century literary scholar, prolific author—was not the most progressive of academics, but he was a thoroughly modern man. He concluded that Shakespeare “wrote the best poetry and the best prose in English, or perhaps in any Western language,” and he saw Shakespeare’s plays as

the outward limit of human achievement: aesthetically, cognitively, in certain ways morally, even spiritually. They abide beyond the end of the mind’s reach.

Bloom is but one voice among many in a chorus of praise that has been heard for centuries and continues to this day. Indeed, the monumental excellence of Shakespearean drama has become a commonplace in our culture; it is woven so thoroughly into the very fabric of modern existence that one might know nothing about Shakespeare and yet live a life that is profoundly enriched by his art.

But surely, multifaceted cultural brilliance of this magnitude doesn’t simply appear in a young Englishman’s restless and uniquely rhetorical mind. Only God creates ex nihilo. What were the antecedents? The residual dramatic energies? The formative influences? Let us not oversimplify; there were many. My intention here is to discuss only one, though it is one which you perhaps have not heard of, and which may be more significant than some would like to admit.

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Though it saddens me greatly to say it, few have seen a Shakespeare play performed in anything approaching an ideal theatrical environment. Early modern theaters looked something like this:

The reconstructed Globe in London gives us an even better idea:

The style is known as a “thrust stage,” whereby the performance area projects out into the audience. The action on the stage can be seen from the front and from the sides. The arrangement is vaguely reminiscent of a traditional sanctuary, wouldn’t you say?

And though it again saddens me to say it, few people, historically speaking, have seen a Shakespeare production that sought to fully and faithfully reproduce the sensory and psychological experience of an Elizabethan theater—and we must remember, as the Shakespearean scholar Sir Stanley Wells pointed out, that Shakespeare was, “supremely, a man of the theater..., a man immersed in the life of that theater and committed to its values.” We learn from Coleridge that in a theater of Shakespeare’s time, “the circumstances of acting were altogether different from ours; it was much more of recitation”; thus, “the idea of the poet was always present.” What we call acting today is often a rather boisterous and busy affair; for Shakespeare, acting was fundamentally recitation, poetry, oratory. There was little need for extravagant scenery; ornamentation was achieved through language and music, with some help from what must have been exceedingly fine costumes and elegantly coordinated movements. The overall aesthetic was one of visual gravity and decorative simplicity offset by consummate verbal artistry; the mind was drawn, thereby, to the essence of the thing.

Can you imagine this? Does it not somehow resemble, in your mind’s eye, a traditional liturgical service? If it does, we need not be surprised: the medieval drama of sacred liturgy led, in the best possible way, to the early modern drama of the theater. That is to say, it led to Shakespeare.

Allow me to share three remarkable statements made by Dr. O. B. Hardison, who was writing not, I emphasize, as an apologist for the Latin Mass. He was writing as a mainstream scholar, and a highly distinguished one at that—an author, an esteemed educator, a professor at Georgetown, and a director of the Folger Shakespeare Library:

In the ninth century the boundary ... between religious ritual (the services of the Church) and drama did not exist. Religious ritual was the drama of the early Middle Ages and had been ever since the decline of the classical theater.

Modern Western drama is the product of a Christian, not a pagan, culture. Its forms, its conventions, and its characteristic tonalities are shaped by this fact. To study early medieval drama is to study the way in which these forms, conventions, and tonalities came into being.

Just as the Mass is a sacred drama encompassing all history and embodying in its structure the central pattern of Christian life on which all Christian drama must draw, the celebration of the Mass contains all elements necessary to secular performances. The Mass is the general case—for Christian culture, the archetype. Individual dramas are shaped in its mold.

I wrote in an earlier NLM article that “traditional Christian liturgy was the heart of Europe’s artistic genius.” We have here yet another example of this, and it is an example that should resonate throughout the artistic consciousness of the entire Christian world. Shakespeare was a playwright, a dramaturgical poet, a “man of the theater”; and the theater was a secularized descendant of the Church’s sacred liturgy—her medieval liturgy.

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I have introduced a complex subject and cannot explore it with adequate length or nuance in this one essay. We will need to return to this topic in the future. Nevertheless, I hope I have at least provided some thought-provoking context for the following statement: marginalization or prohibition of the classical Roman liturgical rites is a grievous threat to human culture, not least because it is a threat to liturgical forms and experiences that served as archetypical precursors to early modern English theater—and from early modern English theater emerged some of humanity’s most compelling, cherished, influential, enlightening, and artistically virtuosic works of literature.

Cardinal Ratzinger said, quite boldly, that “the only really effective apologia for Christianity comes down to two arguments, namely, the saints the Church has produced and the art which has grown in her womb.” It is unthinkable that we should deprive future generations of the liturgical rites that for so many centuries breathed the breath of life into Christian art. The modernized rites, though currently favored by the ecclesial hierarchy, have demonstrated no comparable ability to inspire great artists, sublimate poetic sensibilities, and elicit artistic masterpieces; given their apparent effects over the past sixty years, we have no justification for assuming that they ever will.

The artistic, and therefore spiritual, crisis in Western Civilization has no simple solution, but a first and crucial step in this solution is simple: Let the Roman Church return full freedom to her ancient and everlasting Mass, which was described by the French playwright Paul Claudel—and perhaps would have been described in like terms by the English playwright William Shakespeare—as “the most profound and grandiose poetry, enhanced by the most august gestures ever confided to human beings.”

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For thrice-weekly discussions of art, history, language, literature, Christian spirituality, and traditional Western liturgy, all seen through the lens of medieval culture, you can subscribe for free to my Substack publication: Via Mediaevalis.

The Basilica of St Cecilia in Cologne

Since today is the feast of St Cecilia, we continue our series on the twelve Romanesque basilicas of Cologne, Germany, with the one dedicated to her. This post will be much briefer than any of the others, and is really only being done at all for the sake of the completeness of the series; German Wikipedia says that Mass is now celebrated here only on Christmas and the patronal feast day. (All images from Wikimedia Commons., CC BY-SA 4.0 unless otherwise noted.)

The interior of the church in 1911

It was founded as the church of a women’s monastic house in the late 9th century, and prominent enough within the city that it served as the station church for the dawn Mass of Christmas. The current building dates to the twelfth century; in 1474, it passed to a community of Augustinian canonesses, but all of the conventual buildings were destroyed after the dissolution of the religious houses in the early 19th century. For a time, it served as the church of a hospital, but after it was severely damaged in the Second World War, it became the home of part of a museum dedicated to religious art. In its current form, it has neither tower nor transepts; there are some bare remains of fresco in the nave and choir, but they are sadly in very poor condition.

by Chris 06

by Hans Peter Schaefer, CC BY-SA 3.0

by Островский Александр, Киев, CC BY-SA 3.0

by Raimond Spekking

by Daderot (image released to public domain)

by Raimond Spekking, CC BY-SA 3.0

by Daderot (image released to public domain)

Numbering the Heavens

Lost in Translation #112

In the Niceno-Constantinopolitan Creed, God the Father is said to have created Heaven and earth (οὐρανοῦ καὶ γῆς) while the Son of God is said to have come down from the Heavens (ἐκ τῶν οὐρανῶν) to become man and, after His resurrection from the dead, to have ascended into the Heavens (εἰς τοὺς οὐρανούς), where He sits at the right hand of the Father. One might be tempted to dismiss the use of both the singular number and the plural as a need for poetic variety, rather than an indication of two different places. On the other hand, it is worth asking whether God the Son came from the Heaven that His Father created, as if He were a creature like Heaven itself. Surely not, for the Nicene Creed was written to reject this Arian position. Therefore, when the Son is said to have come and to return to “the Heavens,” the plural may indicate the place where the Holy Trinity alone abides, as opposed to the place created by God for His blessed creatures (the Angels and Saints).

These subtleties, in any event, are lost in translation. All the official vernacular versions of the 1970 Roman Missal that I consulted use “heaven” (singular) every time: the Italian has cielo, the French ciel, the German Himmel, and the English “heaven.”

But the greatest peculiarity of all is the Latin translation that is in both the old and new Roman Missal, which has that God is the Creator of Heaven (caelum), that His Son descends from the Heavens (caeli), and that the Son ascends into Heaven (caelum). The Latin, in other words, follows the Greek numbering of the noun the first two times but not the third.

The advantage of the original Greek is that it shows that the place whence Jesus came is the exact same place whither He returns. By ascending into Heaven, Jesus perfectly closes the circle of His journey. Such a circle, it seems to me, is typical of ancient Greek thought, from the departure and homecoming of Odysseus in Homer’s Odyssey to the emanation and return of the soul in Plotinus’ Enneads. The Roman mentality, by contrast, is more like the trajectory in Vergil’s Aeneid. By journeying to Italy, Aeneas is technically returning to his ancestral home,[1] but it is a home to which he has never been before. Thus, Aeneas’ journey is both circular and linear, with the movement of the plot dominated by the latter. Perhaps by proclaiming that Jesus came from the Heavens and ascended into Heaven, the Latin Creed is drawing attention to how Heaven is now different thanks to the Ascension and the holy souls, rescued from Limbo, who now fill it. Or, Heaven is now different because a human soul and body has entered it for the first time, a High Priest offering His own blood in a Temple not made of human hands. (See Heb. 9, 12)

And there may be a second reason for the Latin “mistranslation.” To my mind, rendering a place or region in the plural makes it more indeterminate or amorphous. Someone who is lost in the canyons, for example, seems more lost to me that someone who is lost in the canyon; in the latter case, we can deploy the search party with greater precision. Jesus coming from the “heavens” could mean that Jesus is coming from an amorphous place on High, but when Jesus returns, He is returning to a determinate place specified in the next verse: He sitteth at the right hand of the Father. The specificity of this location may have inspired the Latin translator to call the place of this throne “heaven” rather than “the heavens,” and that specificity ties in nicely with the specificity of the concrete body and soul of the Incarnate Word, who is not returning to the Father in the same condition as He left.

Note

[1] The Trojans are called Dardans, and Dardanus is said in Aeneid 3.163, 7.273, and 8.180 to have come from Hesperia, an ancient name for Italy.

The Basilica of Sankta Maria ‘im Kapitol’ in Cologne (Part 1)

For the feast of Our Lady’s Presentation, we continue our series on the twelve great Romanesque basilicas of Cologne, Germany, with the largest one of them, which is dedicated to Her. It is nicknamed ‘im Kapitol – in the Capitol’, to distinguish it from the smallest, ‘in Lyskirchen’, which is also Hers. This title refers to a large Roman temple which was built on the site in the first century AD, when Cologne became a Roman colony. (Its name derives from the Latin word “colonia”.) This temple was dedicated to the Capitoline triad, the gods Jupiter, Juno and Minerva; the nave of the church stands on its original foundations. (All images from Wikimedia Commons, CC BY-SA 4.0 unless otherwise noted.)

A 13th century wooden sculpture of the Virgin and Child, which stands at the front of the rood screen, known as “the Limburg Madonna.” (by Triptychon)

Even though Sankta Maria im Kapitol was terribly damaged during World War II (as were all of the churches of Cologne), it nevertheless preserves enough artistic treasures and objects of interest that they merit a separate post. This article will therefore cover just the architectural structure, and some of its major features. (One of the twelve churches is dedicated to St Cecilia, whose feast is tomorrow, so we will cover that one first, and then come back here next week.) The church also has a wooden door made at the time of its original construction, ca. 1060, which is in an astonishingly good state of conservation, even retaining some of its original paint, despite the fact that it was not brought inside for preservation until the 1930s. (It is now installed at the end of the south aisle.) The two parts have 26 panels with scenes from the life of Christ, the Nativity cycle on the left, and the Passion and Resurrection cycle on the right. This object is rare and beautiful enough to merit its own article, which I will post during Advent.

by Imme Fischer, CC BY-SA 3.0

Sankta Maria im Kapitol is traditionally said to have been originally founded by a Frankish noblewoman named Plectrude (died 718), the wife of Pepin of Herstal, during their long residence in Cologne. (After World War II, her sarcophagus was found in the middle of the bombed-out church). The construction of the current building began in the 11th century, following the plan of the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem, with three apses of equal size grouped around the crossing. It then became the custom for the archbishop of Cologne to celebrate the first Mass of Christmas here.

In 1170, the westwork was expanded with three large towers, modelled on those of the nearby abbey of Brauweiler, but the central one collapsed in 1637, and the other two are not much higher than the façade. Thus, although Sankta Maria im Kapitol is the largest of the twelve basilicas in terms of its footprint on the ground, it is not as visually impressive as the others on the outside.

by Michael Wittwer

The square chapels between the apses were added in the second half of the 15th century.

by Cmcmcm1

Continue Reading this Article. . .

Liturgical Notes on the Presentation of the Virgin Mary

The story of the Virgin Mary’s Presentation in the Temple comes to us not from Sacred Scripture, of course, but from some of the apocryphal Gospels. Although these are never read in the liturgy, some of what is written in them has been accepted by the Church’s tradition, both liturgical and artistic; they have given us not only today’s feast, but also influenced the depiction of Christ’s Nativity and the Assumption. It should always be born in mind that the Apocrypha (which exist in all the New Testament’s literary categories, gospels, acts, epistles and apocalypses), are not all of a piece. Some are clearly written to lend credit to one heresy or another, but others are simply harmless (or mostly harmless) tales about the Holy Family during the years of which the real Gospels say very little.

The Presentation of the Virgin, by Tintoretto, 1553-56, from the church of the Madonna dell’Orto in Venice.

One of the very oldest, the mid-2nd century Proto-evangelium of James, recounts the Virgin’s presentation in the Temple as follows.

And the child was three years old, and Joachim said: Invite the daughters of the Hebrews that are undefiled, and let them take each a lamp, and let them stand with the lamps burning, that the child may not turn back, and her heart be captivated from the temple of the Lord. And they did so until they went up into the temple of the Lord. And the priest received her, and kissed her, and blessed her, saying: The Lord has magnified your name in all generations. In you, on the last of the days, the Lord will manifest His redemption to the sons of Israel. And he set her down upon the third step of the altar, and the Lord God sent grace upon her; and she danced with her feet, and all the house of Israel loved her. And her parents went down marveling, and praising the Lord God, because the child had not turned back. And Mary was in the temple of the Lord as if she were a dove that dwelt there, and she received food from the hand of an angel.” (chapter 7 and beginning of chapter 8)

This story is told in similar terms in the “History of Joseph the Carpenter”, written about the year 400, which goes on to tell how the temple priests chose Joseph to be Mary’s husband. The Gospel of Pseudo-Matthew, of the same period, adds that “Joachim, and Anna his wife, went together to the temple of the Lord to offer sacrifices to God, and placed the infant, Mary by name, in the community of virgins, in which the virgins remained day and night praising God. And when she was put down before the doors of the temple, she went up the fifteen steps so swiftly, that she did not look back at all; nor did she, as children are wont to do, seek for her parents.” (chapter 4) It then describes the Virgin’s life of prayer and work in the temple, showing Her to be a perfect model of religious life.

A feast in honor of this event appears in an English manuscript known as the Canterbury Benedictional, written about 1030, and in a number of English calendars after that. It seems, however, to have died off; in the last editions of the Sarum Missal, from the mid-16th century, it is missing from the Calendar, and the Mass is included only in the appendix. Elsewhere, it appears sporadically in liturgical books printed in the century before the Council of Trent; the Mass and Office were often simply those of the Virgin’s Nativity, with the word “Nativity” changed to “Presentation” wherever it occurred. Pope Sixtus IV (1471-84), who was the Minister General of the Franciscans until two year before his election, brought his order’s traditional zeal for new Marian feasts to the Use of Rome by adding the Presentation to the Roman Missal and Breviary, as he also did for the Immaculate Conception. The unusually elaborate rhyming Office seems to refer to the novelty of the feast in the Magnificat antiphon of First Vespers.

Novae laudis adest festivitas,
grata mundo ac caeli civibus,
qua Beatae Mariae sanctitas
templo data est a parentibus,
ut olivae pinguis suavitas
uberibus redundet fructibus.
(A feast of new praise is nigh, pleasing to the world and the citizens of heaven, in which the holiness of Blessed Mary is given to the temple by Her parents, that the sweetness of this rich olive tree may redound with rich fruits.)

A page of a Roman Missal of 1515, with the rubric in the upper part of the right-hand column, “On the feast of the Presentation of the Virgin Mary, the Mass is said of (Her) Nativity, with the name ‘Nativity’ changed to ‘Presentation.’ ”

In St Pius V’s reform of the Roman liturgical books, the feast of the Presentation is suppressed, along with those of Ss Joachim and Anne, precisely because they all derive from an apocryphal gospel. This went far too strongly against the grain of traditional piety, and all three feasts were swiftly restored, St Anne’s by Pius’ own successor, Gregory XIII, in 1584, the Presentation by Sixtus V the following year, and St Joachim by Gregory XV in 1622. The liturgical texts of the feast are the common Mass and Office of the Virgin Mary, with proper readings only for the second nocturn of Matins, and a proper Collect.

The Byzantine Rite knows no such reserve or restraint in regard to the feast, which is properly called “The Entrance of the Our All-Holy Lady, the Mother of God, into the Temple.” It is ranked as one of the Twelve Great Feasts, most of which are kept with both a Forefeast and Afterfeast, broadly the equivalent of a Vigil and Octave in the traditional Roman Rite. Afterfeasts vary in length, however, and those of the Virgin’s Presentation and Nativity are the shortest, only four days, the final day being known as the Leave-taking.

As such, it has a great many proper texts to be sung in the Office, of which here I can only give a very small selection.

At Vespers: Today, let us dance, O faithful, singing to the Lord in psalms and hymns and honoring His sanctified Tabernacle, the living Ark, that contained the Word Who cannot be contained; for in wondrous fashion she is offered to the Lord as a young child in the flesh, and Zachariah, the great High Priest, joyfully receives her as the dwelling place of God.

Here and elsewhere, the liturgy assumes that the High Priest who received Mary into the Temple was Zachariah, the father of John Baptist.

Anna the all-praised cried out rejoicing, “Receive, O Zachariah, her whom God’s prophets proclaimed in the Spirit, and bring her into the holy Temple, there to be brought up in reverence, that she may become the divine throne of the Master of all, His palace and resting place and dwelling filled with light!”

At the Divine Liturgy, the usual hymn to the Mother of God “It is truly meet’ is replaced by the following:

The angels, on seeing the entrance of the Virgin, were amazed that She went with glory into the Holy of Holies. Since she is a living Ark of God, let profane hands in no way touch Her, but let the lips of believers unceasingly sing to the Mother of God, raising up a song with the angel’s voice, and cry out in rejoicing, “Truly, thou art exalted above all, O pure Virgin!”

The Apocryphal Gospels have also helped to establish the traditional manner of representing the Entrance of the Mother of God in icons. The Gospel of Pseudo-Matthew states in chapter six that “when (Mary) was three years old, she walked with a step so mature, she spoke so perfectly, and spent her time so assiduously in the praises of God, that all were astonished at her, and wondered; and she was not reckoned a young infant, but as it were a grown-up person of thirty years old.” For this reason, She is represented in this icon, not as a child, but as a miniature adult, to indicate that the fullness of grace and virtue already resides within Her. The lamp-bearing virgins who accompany Her to the temple at Joachim’s request, as stated above in the Protoevanglium of James, are also shown. Note how The Virgin Mary approaches the high priest with Her hands open, to symbolize that She is offering Herself to God.

An icon of the Entrance of the Mother of God into the Temple, painted by an anonymous artist of the Cretan school in the 15th century. (Public domain image from Wikimedia Commons.)

The Saint-Sever Beatus: An Illustrated Commentary on the Apocalypse (Part 1)

As the Church’s year draws to a close, the book of the Apocalypse becomes very prominent in the Roman liturgy. It is read at the Mass of both the vigil (5, 6-12) and feast of All Saints (7, 2-12), and at Matins of the latter (4, 2-8 and 5, 1-14); at the third Mass of All Souls’ day (a reading of single verse, 14, 3, borrowed from the daily Mass for the Dead); and at Matins of the two dedication feasts on the universal calendar, those of the Lateran basilica on November 9th (21, 9-18), and of Ss Peter and Paul (21, 18-27) on the 18th. It also provides the epistle for the Mass of a dedication generally (21, 2-5), and the Introit and Magnificat antiphon of Second Vespers of Christ the King. In the Mass lectionary of the post-Conciliar rite, it is read on the ferial days of the last two weeks of even-numbered years.

Introitus Dignus est Agnus, qui occísus est, accípere virtútem, et divinitátem, et sapientiam, et fortitúdinem, et honórem. Ipsi gloria et imperium in saecula saeculórum. Ps. 71 Deus, judicium tuum Regi da, et justitiam tuam Filio Regis. Gloria Patri... Dignus est Agnus...

Introit, Apoc. 5, 12 & 1, 6 Worthy is the Lamb Who was slain to receive power, and divinity, and wisdom, and strength, and honor. To Him belong glory and dominion forever and ever. Ps. 71 O God, give Thy judgment to the King, and Thy justice to the King’s son. Glory be... Worthy is the Lamb...

In the 8th century, there lived a monk named Beatus (730 ca – after 785) at the monastery of St Turibius in a town called Liébana in Cantabria, one of the northern regions of Spain that was never occupied by the Islamic invaders. (This monastery is still an important stop on the Camino de Santiago, since it possesses a very ancient relic of the True Cross.) Very little is known of this man, although he was a prominent figure in his own time, tutor and confessor to a queen named Adosinda, and correspondent with Alcuin of York. He participated in the controversy over Adoptionism, a Christological heresy which caused some trouble in Spain at the time. (Part of the later rejection of the Mozarabic Rite came from fears that it was tainted with this heresy.) He is now recognized as a Saint by the Church, with his feast day on February 19th, and is therefore officially “Saint Blessed of Liébana.”

Nowadays, he is chiefly known for a lengthy commentary which he composed on the book of the Apocalypse. Medieval authors valued originality much less than we do, and this work borrows heavily from a wide range of earlier writers among the Fathers of the Church. It is valuable most of all because it preserves extensive sections of an earlier commentary, now otherwise mostly lost, by an influential African writer named Ticonius, a contemporary of St Augustine. Like much of the literature of its era, it would probably not be very appealing to most readers today.

The Vision of the Lamb, with the four cherubim and the twenty-four elders, depicted in the Beatus of León, 1047 AD, also known as the Facundus Beatus after its illustrator. (Public domain image from Wikimedia Commons.)

It is, however, famous among art historians of the period, because nearly 30 copies of it survive that preserve the original illustrations, which are believed to be the work of the author himself. (There are also several copies without illustrations.) The oldest of these dates to the mid-9th century; there are 8 others from the 10th, and by the middle of that century, some copyists began to expand the repertoire of images. At the same time, one line of these manuscripts was expanded to include St Jerome’s commentary on the book of Daniel, with illustrations in a similar vein. These books are collectively called “Beatus manuscripts”, and named individually either from their places of origin (e.g. “the Tábara Beatus”, produced at the monastery of the Holy Savior in that town), or the libraries that hold them, (e.g. “the Morgan Beatus” at the Morgan Library in New York.)

One of the most beautiful and complete of these is the Saint-Sever Beatus, which is now in Paris, at the Bibliothèque Nationale de France. (ms. lat. 8878) It was produced at the abbey of Saint-Sever in southwestern France, in the Duchy of Gascony. The name of the abbot at the time, Gregory of Montaner, is in the frontispiece, which dates the manuscript between 1028 and 1072; according to the BnF’s website, the three artists who executed it were called Stephanus, Placidus, and Garsia. (Stephanus’ signature is supposed to be on folio 6, but I can’t seem to find it.) This is the only illuminated Beatus produced in France; in addition to the St Jerome commentary on Daniel, it includes St Ildephonse of Toledo’s influential treatise on the perpetual virginity of Mary. There are nearly 100 images and decorations, with 20 before the commentary even begins, so I will present these in several posts.

The letters in the center of the frontispiece simply repeat the words “Grigorius (sic) abba nobilis” (Gregory, the noble abbot), with the -lis of the last word in the form of an L with a line through it.

This is followed by pictures of the Evangelists; each is shown sitting in a room with a disciple to whom he is consigning his book, and with his symbol above him. The picture following each of them shows two angels in a similar room holding the relevant book.

Continue Reading this Article. . .

The Feast of the Prophet Obadiah, and the Vigil of the Presentation

With the exception of the so-called Maccabee brothers, the Church in the West has never generally celebrated feasts of Old Testament Saints. (The Carmelite Order venerates the Prophet Elijah as one of its founders, and some churches in Venice, which has many close cultural ties to the East, are dedicated to figures such as Moses, Job and Jeremiah.) On the other hand, in the Byzantine Rite, most of the prophets are celebrated liturgically. The Tridentine reform was very concerned to emphasize the common theological patrimony of the Western and Eastern parts of the church, as united witnesses against the innovations of the protestant reformers, and in function of this, Cardinal Baronius added many mentions of Old Testaments Saints to the Roman Martyrology, on or near their Byzantine feast day.

As I have explained in a previous article, the Byzantine Rite does not have a formal Advent in the same sense that the Roman Rite does, but it does nevertheless have a period of preparation for the Nativity. The Old Testament Saints celebrated within this period are all prophets, and today is the feast of the first of these, the Prophet Obadiah (“Abdias” in Greek and Latin), as also noted in the Roman Martyrology.

An illuminated letter at the beginning of the book of Obadiah, in a Bible made in southern France in the first quarter of the 12th century, now known as the Bible of Montpellier; British Library, Harley MS 4772, f° 288r.

Since he gives no information about himself, we know basically nothing about Obadiah; he is traditionally but mistakenly identified with a man of the same name who appears in 3 Kings 18, the servant of King Ahab who saved the prophets of the Lord from the wicked queen Jezabel. His prophecy concerns the fall of the kingdom of Edom, which was descended from Esau, the brother of the Patriarch Jacob, and which the prophet reproves thus: “For the slaughter, and for the iniquity against thy brother Jacob, confusion shall cover thee, and thou shalt perish for ever.” There are a number of similarities between his book and the oracles against Edom in Jeremiah 49, for which reason he is generally believed to be a contemporary of his fellow prophet, living around the year 600 BC.

The Byzantine tradition simply presumes that like all the prophets, he foresaw the coming of the Redeemer as God in the flesh. Thus we read at Vespers of his feast, “Being filled with the light that knoweth no setting, and seeing the glory that surpasseth all knowing and understanding, and standing near to the Lord of all things, blessed Abdias, and having become the interpreter of God, beseech Him that peace and great mercy may be granted to our souls.” And likewise, in the canon of his feast, “Thou wast revealed to be like a wedding attendant of the Church, o blessed one, foretelling that the Savior would come forth from Zion, to Whom we cry out, ‘Glory to Thy power, O Lord!’ ” “Wedding attendant” explicitly associates the prophet with the last of his brethren, St John the Baptist, who says of himself, “the friend of the bridegroom, who standeth and heareth him, rejoiceth with joy because of the bridegroom’s voice.” (John 3, 29; at right, an icon of Obadiah painted in 1912, from Wikimedia Commons.)

Vespers in the Byzantine Rite always belong liturgically to the following day, and so on November 19th, they are of the Forefeast of the Presentation of the Virgin Mary in the Temple, the equivalent of a Roman vigil. The Presentation was introduced to the West very late, and has never been celebrated with a vigil, but in the Byzantine Rite, it is one of the Twelve Great Feasts, those of the highest degree of solemnity after Easter. It therefore has both a forefeast and an afterfeast, the latter being the equivalent of an octave, although these vary in length, and that of the Presentation is only four days long. The most important variable texts sung at the Divine Liturgy, the troparion and kontakion, are as follows on November 20th; the former is also sung at the conclusion of Vespers the evening before.

Troparion Today, Anna foretells to us joy, having brought forth as a fruit assuaging grief the only ever-virgin, whom indeed today she bringeth rejoicing to the temple of the Lord, fulfilling her promises, as the true temple and pure Mother of God the Word.

Kontakion All the world is filled today with rejoicing at the great feast of the Mother of God, crying out, She is the heavenly tabernacle!

A Greek icon of the Presentation of the Virgin, 17th or 18th century, now in the National Fine Arts Museum in Valetta, Malta; image from Wikimedia Commons by Matthewsharris, CC BY-SA 3.0.

Christ the King of Glory - Rex Gloriae

The Cross is the Glory of Christ

As we approach the Sunday of Christ the King, I thought I would feature the award-winning Crucifixion painted by the English Catholic artist Martin Earle. This choice may surprise some who are expecting an image of Christ Enthroned, such as the one at the foot of this article, by Mr Earle. I chose this Crucifixion because the artist decided to entitle it “Rex Gloriae – King of Glory”, a title that I think is wholly appropriate.

This wonderful painting hangs in the cathedral in Aberdeen, Scotland. It is painted in egg tempera on a gessoed wooden panel, two-sided, with the same image repeated on each side. This allows it to be hung over the altar so that both the congregation and those in the sanctuary will see the image as they worship. It encapsulates Salvation History in five parts, representing Christ’s life, passion, death, resurrection, and ascension into heaven.

First, in the main picture, we see the inscription Rex Glo(riae), which draws our attention to the Kingship of Christ commemorated in the Church on the Solemnity of Christ the King, the last Sunday before Advent. Christ was crucified precisely because he claimed to be a king, and Pilate wrote the inscription “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews” (not shown on this cross, but often represented by the first letters of the Latin version, INRI). Pilate wrote this to give legal justification for his execution of an authority who might be perceived as a threat to Roman rule.

As Christians, we know that Christ was always king by his divine nature as the Son of God, and he became king by his victory over death and suffering through his crucifixion. Accordingly, in the creed, we profess that Christ is king because of his divine nature as “God from God and Light from Light” and because he was “crucified under Pontius Pilate.”

Accompanying Christ are Mary the Mother of God and St John the Evangelist on the left, and on the right, in accordance with the Gospel of John, we see Mary Magdalene and Mary, the wife of Clopas. The male figure on the right is the soldier who pierced Jesus’ side with a spear, fulfilling Zechariah’s prophecy:

“And I will pour out on the house of David and the inhabitants of Jerusalem a spirit of compassion and supplication, so that, when they look on him whom they have pierced, they shall mourn for him, as one mourns for an only child, and weep bitterly over him, as one weeps over a first-born. (Zechariah 12, 10)”

This centurion is the soldier who came to us in tradition as St Longinus, and recognised Our Lord as the Son of God in an act of faith, later becoming a bishop in the early Church. From the pierced side flow blood and water, symbolising the Eucharist and Baptism. 

Considering now the minor images: 

On the left is the Nativity, which reminds us of the life of Christ and the mystery of the incarnation, and of Mary, the Mother of God, who gave him his humanity. As a point of interest, the stable is portrayed as a cave in a mountain. This reflects the actual local topography and is a visual reference to a prophecy in the Book of Daniel in which the King Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon had a dream and Daniel, his counsellor, was called to interpret:

“You watched while a stone was cut out without hands, which struck the image on its feet of iron and clay, and broke them in pieces. ... Inasmuch as you saw that the stone was cut out of the mountain without hands and that it broke in pieces the iron, the bronze, the clay, the silver, and the gold—the great God has made known to the king what will come to pass after this. The dream is certain, and its interpretation is sure.” (Dan 2, 34; 45)

The mountain is traditionally interpreted as the Mother of God, and Christ Himself is the stone “cut without hands.” This language alludes to Mary’s perpetual virginity; for example, a hymn in the Byzantine liturgy which draws on the traditional teaching of the Church says:

We exalt you, O Theotokos, crying out, “You are the mountain out of which, in a wondrous way, a stone was hewn that crushed the gates of Hades.” (Orthros, Friday, Tone 4)

Below the central figure is the skull in a cave, a reference to Golgotha - “the place of the skull” - where Christ was crucified, and to His descent to Hell for three days after his entombment, by which He freed Adam and Eve, and the souls of the just from the limbo of the Fathers. The cave in this part of the cross echoes the cave which was the stable in the Nativity scene; one is the place of His birth, the other of His death. The white swaddling clothes in the Nativity scene also become an anticipatory sign of His death, when He will be wrapped in a shroud. The heavenly Christ in the Ascension then has a brilliant white outer garment, which is the transfigured garment, indicating that not just the person, but of all creation - animate and inanimate - participates in the redemption offered to us.

On the right, we see the myrrh-bearing women who came to the tomb and found it empty, and the angel that told them of the resurrection. 

Finally, we see the Ascension, when Christ, having appeared to the Apostles, ascended to heaven and took his place at the right hand of the Father.

Note: I drew information on the Kingship of Christ from a posted homily by Fr Hugh Barbour O. Praem: “The Trial of a King”, Catholic.com (25 November 2018) https://www.catholic.com/magazine/online-edition/the-trial-of-a-king [accessed 8 November 2024]

“Turned Around”: Announcing a New Book of TLM Apologetics

Recent travels have thrown a wrench in my writing schedule, so it’s taken me longer to get to this announcement than I had intended. Last month, TAN Books released my latest work, Turned Around: Replying to Common Objections Against the Traditional Latin Mass, which I now commend to readers of New Liturgical Movement.

Here’s the idea behind it: I take nine objections Catholics make to the traditional Latin Mass, and turn them around in jiu-jitsu fashion: “You are right—but you don’t realize how right you are!”

To the objection that “the priest has his back to me. I can’t engage with him,” I reply: “Yes, he does, and no, you can’t—that’s exactly how it should be, and here’s why.” Or “at Mass the priest is doing everything and I’m just watching him”: “Yes, he alone does everything in his proper priestly way, and that makes it possible for you to do everything in the way proper to you.” Or: “It’s all fancy, like a royal court, which doesn’t fit with a democratic society like ours”: “That’s right, because we are in a royal court, the most royal and most courtly of all, and we have left democracy far behind.”

And so with six additional objections, having to do with:
• the use of a non-vernacular, ancient language;
• kneeling to receive Communion on the tongue;
• repetition in prayers, gestures, and readings;
• the “limits” of the one-year lectionary;
• fixed inherited rituals governed by strict rubrics;
• the inability to understand everything, even after long exposure.

By turning the tables around, my goal is to bring into clearer focus why, over the centuries, the Holy Spirit formed this venerable rite for the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass to be just the way it was and is—the way that countless saints prayed the Mass day in and day out—in order to show how we, too, stand to gain from its peculiar non-modern, even anti-modern features. As many have observed, it is the paradoxical and countercultural aspects of the Latin Mass that powerfully draw numbers of the faithful, young and old, to this mysterious and luminous rite of divine worship.

Turned Around: Replying to Common Objections Against the Traditional Latin Mass transforms challenges into gateways, perplexities into fresh insights, brick walls into garden paths. Ultimately, our Catholic tradition guides us to deeper conversion: the turning-around to God that is the most important of all conversions.
 

I’m especially pleased to convey the endorsement of Karl Keating, the founder of Catholic Answers:

The public argument in favor of the Traditional Latin Mass has been waiting for a book that handles common objections thoroughly yet winsomely. This is that book.... The writing is clear, approachable, and often elegant. Any reader, no matter his current liturgical preference, will come away instructed, intrigued, and edified.

Eminent Thomistic philosopher and bête noire of progressives on Twitter, Edward Feser, agrees: “Peter Kwasniewski’s Turned Around will contribute mightily to the restoration of liturgical and spiritual understanding.” The director of the Mass of the Ages Trilogy, Cameron O’Hearn, chimes in:

The most common objections to the TLM answered, once-and-for-all! Dr. Kwasniewski has crystallized centuries-old wisdom with his always persuasive prose and left us with a literary treasure. It might be the most convincing defense of the TLM I’ve ever read.

Lastly, Eric Sammons, editor of Crisis Magazine, has this to say:

Defending the TLM’s “foreignness” to modern minds is a high barrier that’s difficult to overcome. In these pages Dr. Kwasniewski not only ably accomplishes this task, he “turns around” the common objections against the TLM to show that it’s the Mass of Ages that is truly at home in a fully Catholic worldview.

Prompted by Turned Around, Eric conducted an extensive interview with me for Crisis Point, covering some of the major difficulties people (both ordinary faithful and academic liturgists) have with the TLM. In the end we covered a good bit of ground. Although the content would be appreciated by TLM attendees, we made a special effort to address mainstream Catholics (so this could be a good one to send to people you know who are wondering what all the fuss is about, or who have been resisting your invitation to attend a traditional Mass because of preconceived ideas):

Kennedy Hall also interviewed me about the book. You can watch and listen to our conversation here:

Order a copy today, either at TAN Books (they're having a 40% off sale at the moment) or at Amazon — and, while you're at it, consider getting another copy for a friend or relative!

The Communio Amen Dico Vobis

On the Sundays after Pentecost, most of the Communion chants are taken from the Psalms, as indeed are most of the Gregorian propers throughout the year. There are a some exceptions, however, such as the two from John 6, on the 9th and 15th Sundays, and another from Wisdom 16 on the 13th: “Thou hast given us bread from heaven, o Lord...” These are obviously chosen in reference to the Eucharist, although it has never been a habit of the Roman Rite (nor indeed, of any historical rite) to be consistently obvious in its choice and arrangement of liturgical texts, especially in the seasons without an overarching theme such as Advent or Passiontide. In Lent, a number of Communios are taken from the Gospel of the day, and there is one such in the time after Pentecost as well, on the third Sunday.

However, the Communio for the Sundays at the end of the year, from the 23rd to the last, may seem like a bit of a puzzler, since it is a text which has no evident reference to the Eucharist, and from a Gospel which is not part of the temporal cycle at all.

Communio Amen, dico vobis, quidquid orantes pétitis, crédite, quia accipiétis, et fiet vobis. (Amen I say to you, whatever you ask for in prayer, believe that you shall receive, and it shall be done to you. Mark 11, 24.)

The explanation for this lies in a feature which is found in the early sources of the Roman Rite, and which was retained in many of its Uses up to the time of the Tridentine reform, but was not part of the Use of the later medieval Papal court, which became the Missal of St Pius V. In the earliest Roman lectionaries, proper epistles and gospels are assigned to the Wednesdays and Fridays of the weeks after Epiphany and Pentecost, as well as those of Advent and Eastertide. This Communio is taken from the Gospel which is assigned to the Wednesday of the 23rd Sunday after Pentecost, Mark 11, 23-26, in the second oldest lectionary of the Roman Rite, the Murbach capitulary, ca. 750 AD.

“[Jesus answering, saith to His disciples: Have the faith of God.] Amen I say to you, that whosoever shall say to this mountain, Be thou removed and be cast into the sea, and shall not stagger in his heart, but believe, that whatsoever he saith shall be done; it shall be done unto him. Therefore I say unto you, all things, whatsoever you ask when ye pray, believe that you shall receive; and they shall come unto you. * And when you shall stand to pray, forgive, if you have aught against any man; that your Father also, who is in heaven, may forgive you your sins. But if you will not forgive, neither will your Father that is in heaven, forgive you your sins.”

The Gospel mentioned above in a Missal according to the Use of Cologne, printed in 1487.  

There is no immediately evident reason why the Communio should be taken from the Gospel of the feria, rather than that of the Sunday, but this is not the only such case. The Communio of the 3rd through 6th Sundays after Epiphany is Luke 4, 22, the end of a long-obsolete ferial Gospel attested in the very oldest Roman lectionary, the Wurzburg capitulary, ca. 650. We should note in passing that when Sacrosanctum Concilium spoke of broadening the corpus of Scriptural readings in the Mass (in paragraphs 35 and 51), the broader context of the document makes it clear that what it was talking about was the revival of an authentically ancient and Roman custom such as this, and not the creation of wholly new lectionary founded on more than one erroneous conceit.

Although this passage is missing from the medieval editions of the Roman Missal, and the early printed editions based on them, it returned to general use with the publication of the Missal of St Pius V, in which it forms the Gospel for the Mass of St Gregory the Wonderworker, whose feast is today. (The selection of verses is not exactly the same; it includes verse 22, in brackets above, and ends at the asterisk.) The reason for this is that Gregory is traditionally said to have moved part of a mountain, as explained in the lessons of the 3rd nocturn of Matins on his feast day, which are taken from St Bede’s commentary on the Gospel of Mark.

“The heathen, who have written curses against the Church, are wont to reprove our people by saying that they did not have full faith in God, because they never been able to move mountains. To these it should be answered that not all things have been written down which have been done in the Church, just as the Scripture also bears witness concerning the deeds of Christ our Lord Himself. (John 21, 25) Whence this could also happen, that a mountain might be lifted up and cast into the sea, should this be necessary, as we read was done by the prayers of the blessed father Gregory, bishop of Neo-Caesarea in Pontus, a man outstanding in his merits and virtues...

A stained-glass window in the cathedral of the Holy Cross in Boston, which shows St Gregory moving the mountain (in a much more dramatic fashion than in St Bede’s account.) Image from Wikimedia Commons by Faragutful, CC BY-SA 4.0.

for when he wished to build a church in a suitable place, but saw that it was too narrow, being wedged in between a precipice on the sea on one side, and a mountain on the other, he came there by night, and kneeling down, reminding the Lord of His promise... and in the morning ... found that the mountain had left as much space as the builders required for the church. Therefore this man, or other man of like merit, was have been able, if need were, to obtain from the Lord by the merit of his faith, that even a mountain should be removed, and be cast into the sea.”

Fully in keeping with the exegetical traditions of the earlier Fathers, St Bede goes on to give a spiritual explanation of this passage as well. “But since by the term ‘mountain’ is sometimes signified the devil, namely, on account of the pride whereby he lifts himself up against God, and wishes to be like unto the Most High (Isa. 14, 14), a mountain is lifted up and cast into the sea at the command of whose who are mighty in faith when holy teachers preach the Word, and an unclean spirit is driven out of the hearts of them that are foreordained unto eternal life...”